


Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

by Hoodoo



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Desperation, Drinking, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fuckbuddies, Fucking, Shameless Smut, Smoking, softer ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 17:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21182990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: You'd had a hard day and just want some hardcore action. Betelguese obliges.





	Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

You knew you shouldn’t, but it had been one of _those_ days. A day that had been packed full of angry, demanding people, disrespectful people; a day that felt like you were running in sand. You were physically tired, mentally exhausted, and emotionally drained. 

You needed a distraction, something completely unrelated to your life, and although you might regret it later, you knew the perfect way to do it.

No candles or soft music. You were in pyjamas and didn’t even put on matching under garments--you’d discarded your bra the second you walked through your front door, and there was no way in hell you were putting that contraption back on!

Pulling a beer from the refrigerator, you cracked it open, took a swig, and muttered, 

“Betelguese, Betelguese, Betelguese.”

You didn’t put any inflection or emphasis on his name, but that didn’t matter. Like a rule in a fairy story, three was the magic number; it made no difference how the words were spoken. You’d never asked him exactly who made the rule or what the purpose of it was, and he’d never volunteered the information. 

What was important was that it worked. 

When the final syllable was out of your mouth, he appeared in front of you, with an audible ‘pop!’

“Hey babe! You rang?” Betelguese exclaimed, arms wide to make a grand entrance, the grin on his face even wider. “You think you could give me--”

You shoved the beer into one his hands and stepped up against him boldly, taking him by surprise as you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth, swallowing whatever his next words may have been. 

To his credit, Betelguese took the unexpected welcome in stride, thrusting his tongue through your lips even as you could feel his smile didn’t abate. He practically hummed his delight, and you could only imagine it stemmed from the idea that he was so damn desirable you simply couldn’t contain yourself. 

He could think what he wanted, so long as he gave up the goods.

When you finally had to disengage for a breath of air--the smug bastard didn’t breathe, so he rarely broke a kiss--his eyes were alight with devilish pleasure. 

“Someone’s desperate,” he remarked with only a smidge of sarcasm.

It was never good to let him think he had the upper hand. He could be a conniving brat. So you let him take a swig of the beer you’d unceremoniously shoved into his grip, and then you stole it back from him. 

As you raised the bottle to your own mouth, you told him, “Do you mean you? I gave you _one_ kiss and now you’ve got a raging hard on,” as you slipped your free hand between his legs and cupping his erection before taking a drink.

“Oh baby,” he replied, watching your throat work as you swallowed the beer. Just as you tipped the bottle again to take another pull from it, he said, “Let’s get your lips around something else long and hard.”

Despite the corniness of the joke, you laughed, spilling a little of the booze down your chin. 

“You have the humor of a twelve year old,” you chided, but not too harshly.

“Yep,” Betelguese agreed easily, swooping forward and grabbing you in a parody of the hug you’d greeted him with. 

He took the embrace further, as his nature, grappling you and hoisting you off the ground. Instead of kissing you, he licked the dribbled beer off your face before his mouth latched onto your neck. You shrieked in laughter and struggled weakly against him, demanding without too much insistance to be put down. He did not comply; he carried you out of the kitchen into your living room even as you told him to be careful, the beer was spilling, it was making a mess, come on Betelguese--

He dumped you onto the couch. 

“Careful with the ‘B’ word,” he cautioned with a scowl.

You rolled your eyes, and reaching up to take a handful of his shirt, you yanked him down on top of you.

As if your earlier concern was forgotten, you dropped the open beer. The flurry of activity you engaged in--unbuttoning his shirt with such force a few buttons clattered to the ground, working at his belt and fly with such fevor you couldn’t make your fingers move fast enough--left him both startled and aroused. 

Betelguese let you fumble your way into his clothing, chuckling and teasing you that _he_ knew how hot he was but it was nice to have the confirmation of it as woman tore off his clothing. With his weight pressing you into the cushions and his refusal to help--because, again, he could be a _brat--_you managed to throw his shirt awkwardly over his shoulders and shove his trousers to his knees. You hooked a foot into the crotch of them and kicked them as far down as his ankles. Since neither of you had bothered to remove his shoes, you effectively hobbled him. He didn't seem to mind.

Then, because he was mostly nude and you were not, still pinned under him, you growled in frustration, even though it was a problem of your own making. 

He laughed at you, which should have made you angry. Before you could voice it, however, he dropped his head and kissed you with the same energy you’d met him with when he appeared. Your front teeth met his, painfully, and his tongue rooted for yours. You gave up stripping and took his head to keep him from ending the kiss too soon. 

He’d used the word desperate, and you weren’t ashamed it was true. The kiss waxed and waned as you had to steal sips of air, but it never lost its intensity. You didn’t let him up; you continued it for what could have been an eternity, nipping and sucking and groaning into his mouth. 

Betelguese pulled back a bit, his lips still anchored to yours, to look down at you as best he could. You finally released his mouth but continued to kiss his jaw to his neck, leaving a trail of marks that showed up purplish-red on his pale skin. 

“You’re wearing clothing,” he announced, like it suddenly occurred to him.

Immediately you twisted to try and at least shimmy out of your pants. He still didn’t move to give you the freedom to finish the job. Instead he frowned like he couldn’t believe he had to do _everything_ himself, held himself up one arm, and snapped the opposite fingers. 

Your pyjamas disappeared off you, ending up in a heap on the floor. 

“That’s better,” he leered, leering down at you. 

“Much,” you agreed, and pulled him back into a kiss. 

With no clothing between the two of you, the cold of his body pressed atop yours made you shiver, but it was more in anticipation than the cold. Under him, you rocked your pelvis upward towards him suggestively, hoping that he would take the hint and not pretend he didn’t know what you wanted. 

For once, Betelguese didn’t tease or drag it out. As soon as his own body dipped into the perfect position because your movement spread your legs even more to accommodate him, he thrust forward. 

He missed the sweet spot. 

It still felt good, his cock slipping along your pussy to lay heavily on your clit. It was a smidge too hard, making pleasure that bordered tightly on ache jolt through you, but on another day you’d have let him rock the length of his cock to tantalize you as a precursor to actual sex. It wasn’t what you wanted, though, so you didn’t try to contain the disappointed groan that passed your lips. 

He could have taken offense to your disappointment, but luckily your need fed his and he just looked sheepish instead. With a self-deprecating grin, he spit into his hand, reached between you, readjusted to be exactly right this time, and held himself steady as he pushed into you. 

Now your groan was gasping and drawn out, and full of pleasure. 

Sex with Betelguese was always began as a physical shock. His skin was chilly, and that included his cock. The first few moments after he entered you were like being filled with ice, but luckily your own body temperature warmed him. Sometimes you wondered if he could actually control how warm or cold he was and he simply didn’t make himself warm enough initially just because he liked to hear you gasp and so he could absorb the heat from your body. Although bound by some rules, Betelguese had an autonomy that seemed almost endless.

Deep questions like that were neither here nor there at the moment. You got the beginning of what you wanted, and you wanted even more.

Clutching him, you held him in place, forcing him to continue pressing you into the couch. 

“Jesus, baby, I was half joking about the whole ‘desperate’ thing--” he began.

You interrupted him. “Just fuck me!”

Betelguese didn’t need a second invitation. 

He fucked you hard, just how you wanted it, just how you needed it tonight. The points of his hips slammed into you with enough force that you may be bruised in the morning. The friction of his cock pushing in and pulling out of your pussy was divine. You tilted your hips as best you could to allow him to go as deeply as possible. 

Although naturally a talkative lay, he didn’t waste breath on words this time. Instead, your moans filled the air. Your fingernails dug into his back until he shook them off, then you grasped his sides, urging him faster, faster.

He was warm now. The transition matched the increasing bliss building in your belly. Abbreviated words of encouragement escaped your lips--

“Yes--yes--please--oh god--please--”

\--as he continued, and you locked your ankles together over his back to keep him in place. Involuntarily you pushed up into him. That bliss reached critical mass inside you, an explosion of ecstasy that left you seeing stars and narrowed the world to just you, him, and the couch he seemed determined to try to fuck you through.

You would have loved to ride that crest as long as possible, and since you’d opened the floodgates, Betelguese obliged. His hips worked relentlessly thrusting against you, like a machine, but in spite the haze of pleasure that cocooned you, you felt a faint tremble in him.

In cases of fast and furious sex like this, that heralded that he was close to the end too. 

You continued to hold him close, cooing in his ear as his head dropped against the side of yours. You could be just as dirtily encouraging as he could--he’d told you that was one reason he liked you--and you whispered to him that you loved his cock, you loved how good it felt as he fucked you, you couldn’t get enough--

With a strangled cry that sounded more human than his typical gravelly voice, Betelguese came deep inside you. Then he truly collapsed, and you hadn’t realized how much weight he had kept off of you until that exact moment. 

Still, being crushed by him with his cock still buried in you wasn’t the worst. Cleaning the couch cushions of his slightly luminous, ectoplasmic come was going to be, if you didn’t get to it in a timely manner. 

But you couldn’t make yourself care. He’d given you exactly what you needed, no questions asked. As he finally did find the strength to push himself up and off you, you sat and stood up, ignored the wet that trickled down your inner thighs, and went back to the kitchen to grab another beer. Grabbing your top from the floor you pulled it on over your head as you kicked your pyjama bottoms to soak up the beer that had spilled on the floor as you walked passed it. 

When you returned, he was sitting up with no regard to the wet spot under him, a cigarette dangling between his lips. He lit it with a flame that seemed to originate from a fingertip, and leaving the cigarette in place, he blew out the fire from the opposite side of his mouth. He’d left his shirt half off his shoulders but had finally untangled and freed himself from the trousers that had been bunched around his ankles. Like you, he was nude from the waist down. He took a pull off the cigarette and exhaled a thin wisp of smoke that curled like a sandworm near his head. He patted the cushion next to him and you rejoined him with a sigh. 

You took a swallow of booze, and when he indicated with an upward jerk of his chin he wanted some, you handed it over and plucked the cigarette out of his fingers. Trading vices, he downed half the bottle while you took a drag. 

“Bad day?” he asked.

You threw a glance at him. Did he actually care? Was this a new side to him, something that wasn’t self-serving or sarcastic? Was it a trap of some sort?

You decided you didn’t have the energy to work all the possible angles out and accepted the question at face value. 

“It’s better now,” you replied, leaning into his shoulder. 

At your cozy touch you felt him tense beside you. You ignored his reaction. From the corner of your eye, you saw you’d surprised him with your honest answer. The same internal struggle and questions must have flitted through this head. However, he must have decided the same thing you just did, and in a moment he relaxed too. You sat in companionable silence passing the drink and smoke between each other. 

_fin._


End file.
